Make Me Proud, Son
by hamiItonsIaurens
Summary: Historical AU - Philip Hamilton survives getting shot but is then hit with the loss of his father and the disintegration of some key relationships
1. The Shot

Philip Hamilton straightened his collar and flattened out his jacket, standing outside the door to his father's office. He was waiting for him to exist, knowing better than to interrupt him while working. While waiting, he contemplated the day's happenings, turning over in his head the major questions he was about to ask his father. There were so many choices to be made, he wasn't used to this. He was merely a young poet with young words and a young heart. George Eacker was 27, he knew so much more of the world than Philip.

He heard his father's footsteps approach the door, then stall and backtrack. Philip sighed. How he loved his father, but his work had stolen so much time that could've been spent teaching Philip how to be a child. Now he was almost an adult and he needed his help to survive. The world around Philip had changed so much from the days were he cried in his mother's arms, missing his father and unable to phantom why he'd left them again. He knew better now, he understood his father's work. Now he was as determined as he was to preserve the good name of Alexander Hamilton, and Eacker had disgraced that. In doing so, he had thrown his safety to the wind. All he wanted was to protect his father but in doing so he'd (literally) placed himself into a line of fire.

A number of hours passed before the door creaked open and Hamilton finally existed his study. He almost didn't see his son, as the door opened out in front of Philip and he was heading in the opposite direction, but Philip called him back, almost having to run after him to keep up the pace. "Father! Sir..."

Hamilton spun on his heel, a smile gracing his features. Philip could make out the growing wrinkles, the lines and dips of his face that were starting to show more and more of the stress he went through daily to fight off his opposers. It always softened into resemblance of the younger self Philip could hardly remember, when he looked at his son.

"Philip." He put an arm on his shoulder, the smile never fading from his lips. "I hope you weren't waiting long..you need to learn you can knock, son, I'm here for you whenever you need."

Philip nodded, but in the knowledge that he would do he exact same thing the next time he needed his father's help. He held his Dad's work and drive above all else. It was as important to him as anything.

Philip inhaled, so worried that Hamilton would snap at him, call him foolish or rash for his behaviour, scold him as he so often did when he was a child. "Today a man by the name of George Eacker..was speaking so much shit about you, I could just let it slide you wouldn't have either! ...He was downtown on Broadway and I confronted him during the show he was watching, right in the middle of it...I caused a scene but the pamphlets, the essays he's written! That 4th of July speech. Pops, I'm sure you've seen them, but I couldn't just let it go. I had to stand up for your name, he was taking it and raking it through the mud.." Philip swallowed, his mouth felt dry, his breathing coming out sharp and panicked. He was so nervous to disappoint this man who'd given him so much, his name, all of the knowledge that streamed from his brain to pages upon pages. He was following in his footsteps through and through, set to be one of the greats, just like Alexander was going to be, and already was. His father used to say all the time when he was younger that one day Philip would 'Blow us all away.' He'd been too young at the time to understand, but now thinking back on how many times his father had announced this with a heart full of honest hope and colossal pride, it gave him so much more ambition and motivation to go above and beyond. To do the Hamilton name as best as he could. Some days he didn't feel half-deserving of donning his father's name. He would not let Eacker shit on it. No longer.

"I challenged him to a duel. It's tomorrow morning.. I don't know what to do we never learned how to shoot at Columbia..." He allowed himself to laugh nervously, but avoided his father's eyes. "What should I do...I needed to stand up for you, for your name, I had to, I'm sorry..."

"Philip..." Hamilton shook his head. His smile was now tinged with such sadness, Philip had to advert his gaze again when he tried to reconnect their line of sight. He couldn't take it. Not the disappointed and regretful words his father was going to spew and not the look in his eye, so full of deeply buried pride, he knew was probably pushed even further below the surface now. To his surprise, his father's voice was warm when he continued, "I was in your position once. Well, you know what, on numerous occasions. You did the right thing to stand up for what you believe in, I just regret that it was over something that I could've resolved if I'd seen or addressed it sooner. Now...did he attempt to peacefully negotiate? What did you say, how did he respond to the accusations?"

"He refuses to apologise, we had to let the peace talks cease..."

His father sighed, nodding. "Very well. Where is this happening?"

"Across the river in Jersey."

"And tomorrow?" Philip merely nodded his head once, stiffly, in response. His father wasn't going to save him from facing this challenge he'd set himself. He'd gotten himself into this mess. Alexander knew far better than to pluck him out of it just because he had authority, Philip knew this. He also knew this was a great way to feel as though he was doing good in the world, and becoming a man while doing just that. A good man, of virtue. Like his father was, despite everything he'd gone through in previous years. "Okay. Philip. I'm going to give you my two muskets, but I need you to do as I say, yes?" Philip gave the same stiff nod again, and Hamilton proceeded in showing him how to properly load the gun, how to cock the trigger, and demonstrated how he would fire. "When the time comes, fire your weapon in the air. I know it may sound absurd, but Philip, your mother's been through a lot. She doesn't need you to go and get yourself killed over something that would seem to her as being a petty squabble which I happen to be at the heart of. She's wary enough of me as it is at the moment..."

"I'll protect your name, Dad. And I'll protect you from any reciprocations from her... but what if he decides to shoot then I'm a goner..."

"If he is truly a man of honour as he claims that he is, he will follow suit. No one will get hurt and the courage and bravery you showed to stand there on that duelling ground will be enough. Make me proud, son." Hamilton smiled, closed the gap between them which was just a stride, and planted a kiss on the top on his sons' head. "Now go, practise shooting those things, out of sight of your mother though, you hear me? I've work to do. Come to me tomorrow once you've settled it, I've some writing I would like to share with you." He gave him the same warm smile that the conversation had started with, as he walked away, and Philip felt like a major weight had been lifted from his shoulders. That had gone much better than he'd expected it to, but he was still apprehensive about shooting towards the sky. It seemed foolish and somehow cowardly, something that Philip would later reconsider as, in actuality, a major act of bravery. But his young heart didn't want to forfeit the duel in such a manner as his father had suggested. He would do him proud, and shoot skyward for him only, not out of his own principles.

The day was clear and dry for late November, but the cold bit into Philip's face and stung at the tip of his nose as he crossed the Hudson. He carried his father's two guns underneath his overcoat, hugging them to the chest as if they were living creatures that he was trying so desperately to keep the cold away from. Once he touched down on the banks of the New Jersey green in which they would duel, he took them out, and started to inspect them as Hamilton had shown him, as he walked forward, towards the battle. George Eacker's second loudly debated with his own as he did settled into place a few meters from where Eacker already stood. The grass was still a lush green and growing, seemingly unaware of the harsh bite of winter that was already setting in. Philip always seemed to notice the most useless of details, but he used that to his advance when it came to his poetry. He could string even the mundane together and transform it into something that shimmered with elegance and beauty.

"George! How was the rest of that show you were watching... what was it-"

"Philip, come on. I know you're young and scrappy but I'd rather skip the pleasantries, let's go."

Eacker's second's voice brought the truth, the striking and humbling reality biting down hard on his thoughts, his ability to move as gracefully as normal. His steps forward, toward Eacker, were full of faltering strides and his gate was as uncertain as that of a fresh colt. Once they reached the spot, standing one foot apart with their guns at their sides, Eacker's second began to count and they turned, matching every new number with another step away from the man that was going to shoot in the opposite direction. One would fall, or both, the possibilities played out like rapid fire through Philips head as he debated, in those seconds, what was to be done.

"Five...Six.." Philip turned and defiantly raised one of his father's guns above his head. He would do him proud. He was a Hamilton with pride, after all, he would wear the name like a badge of honour and do what was right. He stood there, and watched Eacker turn on "Seven...", then instead of raising his gun to the sky, as he so clearly saw Philip doing, he pointed it straight towards his chest, and pulled the trigger.

The world didn't stand still. There was no moment in which he could contemplate the meaning of his existence or what would come after. All of that had been dwelled upon for the hours from the challenge of the duel to when he stood on that wide field and pointed his gun up towards the heavens. No. The only thing that took longer than the instance it really belonged to, was that of him falling to the ground. He felt the bullet enter, just under his rib cage on his right side, and exit, then enter again, this time through his right forearm, then lodge in there, his arm felt as though lightening had struck it, there was no pain at first. But he lost control of his limbs and somehow, as he fell he felt his finger slip the trigger and fire. I hope it hits him, he thought, feeling his body cower. He landed on his knees first, tilting forward with slight momentum, then back. Always poised, dignified. He let himself surrender to the grass and it was there, for the first time since he was a child, that he cursed his father. All he felt was warmth, everywhere, and the corse, almost dead grass beneath his cheek. It was clinging on to life, he noticed with some grief, just as he was. The warmth quickly subsided into pain, though Philip had lost all consciousness of time or light or noise or even the feeling of the grass beneath him, at that point.

And then everything was pain. People pulling at him, grabbing his clothes, pulling his arm back together and to his side. In all of it, all through it, there was pain. It seemed to be all he had ever known, just the unbearableness of it all, of how it seeped in and _became_ his entire consciousness. That was, until he passed out on the boat back to Manhattan, back towards his father.


	2. The Art of Staying Alive

Nothing registered with Philip until he arrived at he hospital, and even then, the minutes, hours and days passed by in an odd web of disjointed memory. He could remember when his father showed up. He could also remember how long that had taken. From what he was told afterward news travelled slowly, in an attempt to spare gossip of Eacker's deed. Thirty minutes Philip lay alone on the hospital bed, shaking of fear, shock and what could have been the start of an infection that almost killed him. The doctor tending to his wounds didn't speak, or if he did, Philip couldn't remember. He couldn't remember his face either. He wanted his mother, her soft smile, her warmth. She would know the words to soothe the consuming fear he felt. And there was so much pain. At some point before his father showed, Philip began to sob. Already struggling to breathe, his breaking was strained ever more as he came to many realisations. He was shot, Eacker had one. He'd failed his father, his father had failed him. He was going to die, maybe alone in a white room with a man who he had never met before. The clock he could just about make out, a grandfather to his left, ticked on in a rhythm which sometimes slowed, sometimes quickened, but always seemed to watch his heart beat. If he strained his neck and tilted his head just so, he could see it, so grand and towering, but that brought on a wave of nauseating pain, and confusion. He handles seemed to move too quickly, then too slowly, and succeed in lodging a migraine right into the thick of his consciousness.

All this was happening, or had happened when Alexander Hamilton, always so dignified, ran into the room and cowered over in grief at his bedside when their eyes met. Even though Philip felt betrayed; his father had been the one to give him the instruction to shoot towards the sky, he welcomed his face with a smile strained in pain.

"I did exactly as you said, pa, I held my head up high. Even before we got to ten... it was seven if I recall..." All of this loss of air was making him feel increasingly light headed but talking felt good, it made him feel more alive than he maybe even was, at that point. "I was aiming for the sky.."

"I know, ..I know." Philip had never heard his father's voice quaver like that. Every word he spoke was purposeful and a monument in itself. Not so unsure, grief-riddled and broken.

"I tried to defend you're honour but now..." He had to gasp to catch his next breath. "Now I'm here. I should've shot. Him."

"I'm sorry, Philip. God, you know I'd do anything to trade your place for mine right now. I'm so sorry, Philip."

It was the first time he'd ever heard his father mutter those words. To anyone.

The words past these that Alexander spoke to his son were long lost in the overbearing pain Philip felt and in the heaving painkillers he'd been administered by the surgeon. The bullet had been extracted from his arm, he could physically feel its absence. But there was something else, in his wake. A fire was burning underneath his skin, eating away at him. The infection was spreading, he presumed. Another indicator was the sweat that stung his vision every time he tried to open his eyes to find his father's face. The next vivid memory came, an unregistered amount of time later, when his mother, Eliza, appeared in even more of a distraught state than Alexander had been. She was howling with grief even before she reached the bedside, and hung onto Hamilton, shaking him, begging her to tell her all he knew, and had he known about the duel before it'd taken place? Philip ignored the dialogue. He focused on her face and that grounded his thoughts a lot more. His parents, whose relationship had been strained, they were together now. If he did die, Philip thought with a slight tinge of happiness, at least he might've brought his family back together.

It was hours before he heard a doctor talk to his parents. Philip would be okay, he heard him say, but he's still unstable and might lose consciousness on and off because of the morphine. Eliza doubted for her son's life. Philip could see it in her eyes later on. She didn't think he would make it, even when he was well on the road to recovery in the days and weeks after the duel. He knew that it was probably the right of him; his frailty, the right arm which would never been completely okay again, his tendency to pass out at relatively sporadic moments. Despite her constant fear and worries, Philip was grateful she was by his side. Hamilton came when he could. His father's friend, John Laurens, who had been shot by British Soldiers years ago and lived to tell the tale, made his way up from South Carolina to speak with Philip and give him some advice for his recovery. He'd come as soon as he heard, but it was two weeks before he arrived in New York. Even at that time, post and message delivery were painstakingly slow.

Philip was grateful for Laurens' presence, he enjoyed his company, his kindness and the stories he shared of the Revolution and his fellow revolutionaries. He especially liked the stories Laurens shared of his father, not just because he loved hearing about Hamilton's antics, but also because of how Laurens changed when he talked about him. Somewhere inside Philip, in an area of himself bare for the things he wanted to desperately keep from his mind, he knew why Laurens had come to his side so quickly. He knew it was just another excuse to see Alexander, who was now far too overworked to keep up with Laurens or his other friends from the war. But Philip focused on the fact that there were people around him that wanted to see him better, and that encouraged him to be stronger, to force his way back to life and into every day with the valour and heart of a solider, like his father before him. Like Hamilton survived, overcame and rose above the battlefields to which he laid his life bare, Philip would survive a different sort of war. He had been afraid to die, but it wasn't that fear that gave him what he needed to live. It was the people he knew, who surrounded him.

He was still bed ridden when the first letter arrived from Aaron Burr. It had been published in a newspaper earlier in the week, and Hamilton had brought it upstairs and read it out to Philip as he stood by the bed. It made Alexander out to be a conspiring dark figure who had, in short, stood in the way of any major advancements in Burr's political career. It was an attempt to tarnish his name, something that Philip knew his father wouldn't stand for.

"Philip, I know you stood up for my name, for our name. For what I am you also are. And, son. I am not going to let this go unanswered. I will do you justice, not just for me. You'll see what I can do to him." Without another word or time given for Philip to answer, Hamilton left the room, his steps loud and heavy with the anger that he too felt.

He couldn't have possibly known then, that this was the beginning of a number of long months of writing, back and forths with Burr, that would eventually lead to his father's death, and his need to avenge it.


End file.
